


five minutes ago, five minutes from now

by internationalprincess



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-09
Updated: 2003-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internationalprincess/pseuds/internationalprincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five things that never happened to Charlie Young.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five minutes ago, five minutes from now

~i'd do it over, i'd do it again~

Charlie's half awake and the glowing numbers on the clock beside his bed tell him it's too early. He rubs at one eye with the heel of his hand, scrubs away sleep and the last vestiges of a dream involving a basketball and, possibly, ice cream. He's disoriented, stretches in his sheets. There's a siren sounding in the distance and he can hear the garbage trucks downstairs.

He's thinking about the game today, wishing it didn't make his gut knot. Charlie's not used to anxiety.

He throws the sheet back and pads into the kitchen, drinks milk from the carton in the light from the fridge.

"I wish you'd use a glass," his mother sighs from behind him. She's leaning against the doorframe, the robe Dee gave her for Christmas hanging off one shoulder. She looks tired. Charlie wishes he hadn't woken her.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I thought I was quiet."

"It's ok," she walks past him to reach for the coffee grounds and ruffles his hair as she passes. "I was half awake anyway."

He sinks to a chair, watches the the night become gray and grainy outside the window. The sound of the water boiling fills the room. She has his back to him.

"There's a game today." He trails off. He's not sure what he wants to tell her. That this could be it, that there'll be scouts and the possibility of scholarships? If he says it out loud it makes it real. The knot in his gut twists impossibly. His mother has turned around, leaning against the countertop, waiting for him to finish.

For an instant he thinks about asking her to come, imagines winning the game with a movie-perfect three-pointer in the closing seconds. Imagines adulation from the crowd and his mother cheering wildly from the stands.

She's always been able to read minds.

"You want me to come along, Charlie? I could change shifts, work tonight instead?"

He's five years old again and wants to say yes, but something stops him. It took her months to get these shifts; she wants to spend the evenings with them. It's just a game, Charlie thinks. There'll be others.

"Nah," he manages finally. "Come to the next one."

 

~there's only one door and it opens this way~

He thinks about leaving. It's already past four, and Dee will be getting out of her after-school program. He can't help berating himself. It seemed like a good idea, coming here to the White House. Not that the government was likely to pay a messenger more than the pizza delivery chain around the corner. But there was something respectable about it, something that made Charlie feel like he was taking a step up. He shakes his head at his own sentimentality. Tells himself he just needs the extra money, doesn't matter where he earns it.

It does matter, though. If it didn't he'd be running with his crew from highschool. Bringing in all the cash he and Dee would ever need. Dishonoring his mother, always watching his back.

The hand on the clock is sliding forward again. Mrs DeLaGuardia had looked over his forms twice before disappearing. All Charlie wants is a simple yes or no. He's been here too long already, and filled out too much paperwork. He doesn't want to fidget, but if he's not home when his sister gets back she'll worry. It's so hard to reassure her these days, and to keep the promise, "I'm not going anywhere."

Finally the door to the office swings open, and an assistant comes in with his papers slipped into a file.

"Are you Charles Young?"

She looks half his age and twice as nervous.

"Yes."

"Mrs DeLaGuardia says you're to take this to the West Wing and ask to see Mr Lyman," she says thrusting the file at him and spinning on her heel.

Charlie looks at the buff folder and steps into the hall, but the girl has already scurried around a corner. He's not sure where the West Wing is, but he can see the entrance he came in earlier. Late afternoon sun streams in the glass panes of the door and a cloud of dust motes swim through the cold marble of the foyer. There's a guard standing across the hall. Charlie looks at the folder again, and then at his watch. He thinks about the chili they are going to make for dinner.

The guard doesn't look at him.

Charlie tucks the folder under his arm, opens the glass door, and heads out into the sunlight.

 

~no points for trying, i just wasn't there~

Charlie's no adrenaline junkie, but he's riding this high.

The crowd is even louder out here than in the Newseum and he's grinning at Zoey while she taunts him. She's so beautiful, skipping backwards while she jokes to Gina about his apologies. He'd do more than say sorry right now, given half a chance. The President's up ahead and he's heading for the ropeline, and Charlie's torn, because the President used his words tonight and he's fiercely proud of the fact. He wants to stand beside him as he shakes hands, be a part of this whirlwind of sound and cheers. But Zoey's a siren when she's happy, and there are other things he wants, too.

Gina's distracted, her eyes seeking something out.

Charlie tugs at Zoey's sleeve, pulls her back towards him, out of the flow of people toward the motorcade.

He just wants to touch her face, just for an instant. Discreet, out of the way of the crowd. Just wants to lean in to whisper in her ear that he loves her, that she's beautiful.

It's a moment in black and white, in slow motion, in cliche.

It's the way she spins to face him, eyes dancing, expectant. It's the half a beat she slows as he pulls her closer. It's the way Gina starts to raise her wrist to her mouth. But the sound itself is unreal, unidentifiable. Just a marker, broaching the gap between this wholly perfect instant and the chaos to follow. Their arms are outstretched towards each other, he still has the fabric of her sleeve clasped in his hand. But she's falling to the ground, beneath an agent who has tackled her, and the smile is chased off her face by fear.

He feels heat, sees light, wonders where his other senses have gone. She's opening and closing her mouth, she must be talking to him. No, she's screaming at him. Under one cheek he feels the rough cast of asphalt, and realises he's on the ground. He's worried about Zoey. She's struggling with an agent who's trying to drag her toward the car, she's kicking and yelling, and mad as hell. And in the next beat she breaks away and she's there, leaning over him, and there are tears running down her face.

Charlie tries to remember what it was he was about to say to her. He feels like it was important, it was only a split second ago.

She has her hands pressed to his chest. There's blood on her sleeves.

 

~one step toward you, two to run away~

The clock on the wall says 9:45 am.

Charlie glares at it, and then at the door and the remains of the bacon on the plate in front of him in turn.

He thinks about the work sitting on his desk waiting for him. The load's a little lighter with Debbie on board, but it still piles up. He thinks about all the extra hours he spends in the West Wing, wishes idly that he'd never gone to see Josh Lyman that day, that he'd held out for the messenger job. Which is ridiculous, he reasons with himself. He wouldn't trade his time in the White House for anything. Well, almost anything.

9:47.

He cracks his knuckles and it makes him think of Zoey. Zoey who hates knuckle-cracking, but likes the French, apparently. He scuffs his feet along the floor, toeing the corner of his gym bag. This was a stupid idea. He rearranges the salt and pepper shakers on the table. He's going to be late.

He checks his cellphone again. No messages.

9:50.

It will take him ten minutes to walk there, so Charlie stands and slings his bag over his shoulder. He throws cash on the table, and retrieves his ball from the seat opposite. He steps out into the cold air, bounces the ball on the sidewalk for a minute, looking up and down the street in each direction. His breath fogs in front of him. There's no sign of the guy.

He dials her number while he waits for the lights to change.

"I'm sorry, CJ," he says when she answers. "Anthony didn't show."

Two days later, close to midnight, he drops by Carol's desk to deliver the copies of the next day's schedules. The door to CJ's office is ajar, and he can see Toby is slouched on her couch with a beer bottle trailing from one hand. They're talking in low voices, and he's loath to interrupt them, so he sets the papers on the top of Carol's in-tray and begins to turn away. But there's a catch in CJ's voice that gives him pause.

Toby is telling her that something isn't her fault, and he thinks, though he can't be sure, that CJ might be crying.

Simon, he reasons. But Toby's unlikely to be calling the dead agent a punk and a coward.

It dawns on him a moment before Toby says, "Anthony deserves to be under arrest."

Charlie swallows hard, and walks away.

 

~no way to get over you, no way to say goodbye~

"I'm confused about you."

Zoey's so close to him, and she smells of things he'd almost forgotten he wanted. If she's confused, she has nothing on him.

"Well, I can't advise you on that."

"Why not?" she asks, which makes him want to strangle her, or kiss her again, or something.

"Because I think this is tonight, and tomorrow you're on the Concorde." It comes out slightly harsher than he intended. He wants to salve the wound by saying more. That he wants her to stay with him, to not get on that plane. To never get on a plane without him again. But he's unsure of his footing, can't help but fear she's toying with him.

"I deserve that..." she says softly, looking out over the garden. They are quiet together. Charlie thinks about all the things he wants to say, thinks about Josh up to his knees in a brook, about the tear in his jacket from where it snagged on a fence. He remembers the night they buried this bottle, the way his fingers tangled in her hair, and the bruise he left on her hip.

She breaks the silence. "Do you think we could just sit here, enjoy the night for a while?"

"Actually, I..." he pauses. He wants to say yes. He wants to throw his arm around her, and sit here until the sun comes up. But he can't seem to shake the feeling that she's humoring him. She's feeling sentimental, and wants to spend this time with him because he's known her for so long. Because Frenchie doesn't know what she's been through to get here.

He never wants to be her second choice.

"I think it's a bad time in a person's life to stop showing up at places they say they're going to show up."

"I should go the party."

"Yeah," he says, but there's no feeling in it.

She leans in for another kiss and he's lost, but she pulls away from him and hands him the bottle of champagne. The smile on her face is wistful, and he wants to say something, anything, to stop her from leaving.

He should let her go.

She leans forward to get to her feet. He catches her wrist and unbalances her. She laughs as she falls back against him.

"Don't go to the party," he whispers as he kisses her forehead, "Don't go to France."


End file.
